


Just Like They're Orphans

by Missy



Category: Evil Dead (2013), Evil Dead (Movies), Evil Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding, Cemetery, Comfort, Demonic Possession, Demons, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Reluctant Heroes, Speculation, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History puts a saint in every dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like They're Orphans

**Author's Note:**

> The spoilers I used in this fic derive from a reading of the shooting script and reports coming out of a test screening held in California. It may be Jossed by a reshoot at this point, but I have a feeling it shouldn't be. In any case, SPOILERS abound for Evil Dead 2013, including information on the final survivor, the nature of their survival, and the death of a major character, and because of all of this it is a SPECULATIVE fic currently subject to canonical compliance.

_"Well they act just like they're orphans/and their memory's a train/you can see it getting smaller as it pulls away/The things you can't remember tell the things you can't forget/that history puts a saint in every dream..."_ – Tom Waits, Time

***

She walks. 

It’s safer than hitching, though it does nothing for her starved gut. _He_ improved her enough to make her new life possible, to make her look like a hobbling victim in the sunlight and a spider in the dark, so she walks until she can’t, then sleeps under the burnt-out elm trees that caress her like a long-lost sister. 

Memories flash through her mind like bits of old nitrate film thrown up against the sun. It takes everything in her to repress her depression and shame.

Her numb brain recalls the person she used to be: an artist. A sister. A daughter. A smack addict.

It dawns on her sometimes that she’s traded one obsession for another. 

That Little Mia’s finally discovered a craving stronger than heroin. One that everyone else calls murder.

 

*** 

She skitters from town to town like a bad dream, stealing raw meat and trying to avoid detection. Sometimes the voices are too strong to put aside. Things get messy. Sometimes she’s a heroine murdering demonic fauna with a chainsaw, and sometimes she’s a vicious monster eating wolves raw.

At high midnight she eats a baby. 

At noon, she weeps tears of blood over the bones.

*** 

Years later, she comes to the cemetery at midnight, on an old anniversary she’s been trying to forget. She doesn't imagine anyone remembers a little dependent named Mia and her big brother.

But someone has.

The sight of David's name carved onto the family stone drives back the howl of the voices for a moment and she falls like a wounded bear to her knees, a helpless, curdled scream of pain rising from her throat as she paws the well-manicured dirt under her fingers in desperation. 

_Go and live,_ said David, before he burned himself to death just to save her skin. 

_What life?_ what's left of her soul shouts. What does she have left now? Just the ground and the moon and a demon trying to wrestle her for her soul.

The hand clasping her shoulder makes her jump into a defensive crouch.

“Hey. You okay?”

The man watching her is twice her size and height, and he has a mean look to him that complements the scars lining his face. His voice makes the demons in her head give a wild shriek before abating into nothingness.

She pulls her arm – shoulder, he managed to touch the amputated one- out of his grip.

Mia considers making a joke, but she turns away, toward the stone. “He was all I had,” comes out, unbidden, and she instantly regrets this show of vulnerability. 

“Sorry.” 

She tucks her knees up under her chin. But Mia can conjure only nothingness. “He died trying to save me.” 

The man doesn't miss a beat – doesn't call her a liar or tell her she’s wrong. The ghosts in his eyes danced to life. “He did what he had to do,” the man declared. “The only thing he could do.”

“It’s my fault,” she says. “I should’ve…” 

“It’s not.” he says. “It takes the best and try to destroy them. Believe me, I know how they operate.” Those steely eyes fix on the stone for a moment, as if he’s trying to melt the concrete with the power of his look.

And Mia can only watch Ash watching the cold stone. “No offense, hipster,” she says, watching him cautiously, “but I don’t know why you care.”

He cracks an awkward smile and reaches up to adjust the collar of his leather jacket. She sees his right hand – a flash of metal, gleaming – and her eyes flare wide. “Let’s just say it’s my job to care.” He eyeballs her, sizing up Mia's skinny form. “Looks like you didn’t get too lucky either, princess.”

She clings to scratched kneecap. “I don’t know how to stop,” the words falling out in a violent, involuntary jumble. Then she locks eyes with the older man. “It makes me do terrible things. Won't let me go…” She closes her eyes. “Kill me. Do it. I need you to or it’ll never stop.”

He just shakes his head. “That’s not up to me, kid,” he replies, and shifts to his feet. “You need the ovarian fortitude to kick their asses to the curb, and nobody can help you with that." He gets to his feet, glances over his shoulder. "Look, I’ve gotta go, but the offer still stands if you need a little advice.”

But the second he steps away, the screams return, demanding blood, death, the flesh of the Promised. She knows what they ask but the shred of her that clings to humanity cries out. “Wait!” Then she jumps to her feet, and he stands there alone in the azalea path, one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah?”

The words come from an unstolen soul. “Take me with you. Please. Please, take me with you.” The voices stop altogether and she says, “I can’t do this alone.” 

A shrug. “Most people can’t. I couldn’t when I was your age. But I had to, so…”

That’s when he’s jumped from behind by a rabid, half-desiccated demon dog. Mia recognizes her noon meal – then recognizes nothing more, for the man takes the animal apart without blinking, then wipes the white goo from his face with the sleeve of his work smock.

Mia’s features crease, confusion reigning in her expression. 

_My God.  
My God, who was he?_

“What?” he asks, growing obviously self-conscious.

“Who are you?” she breathes, a cliche from a movie show, wiping her eyes dry and taking a tentative step forward.

She gets a cocky grin in return. “Name’s Ash,” he says, and wraps his arm around her shoulder.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Characters in this work are derived from the Evil Dead franchise and are the property of Sam Raimi, Renascence Pictures, Ghost House, and Universal/Rosebud Releasing/Tri-Star. No infringement upon copyright for financial gain is intended.


End file.
